


Stumble home over twisted ice

by Ironfrost



Series: delusions of grandeur [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, M/M, Suicide Attempt, because what this fandom needs is more angst, i'm not gonna call it smut but there is something up that alley in here somewhere, if you put on your smut-goggles and squint, modern!AU, tiny amounts of what may appear like fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-16
Updated: 2013-05-16
Packaged: 2017-12-12 00:47:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/805194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ironfrost/pseuds/Ironfrost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Feuilly wakes up in a hospital bed. His friends are crying, and he doesn't understand why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stumble home over twisted ice

**Author's Note:**

> Instead of sleeping, I re-watched season 2 of Shameless. And that made me write this. (I like to remind myself from time to time that I actually do have other ships than E/R.)  
> This fic is set in the same universe as "What's my name again?", somewhere in the future.
> 
> The title is from the poem "Grief" by Louise Erdrich. 
> 
> Come say hello over at barrikade.tumblr.com, that would be lovely.
> 
>  
> 
> Trigger warning: suicide attempt

Feuilly doesn't know what's happening. One moment he is sitting in his flat, drinking and sorta-but-not-really working, and the next he wakes up in a hospital bed. His head is throbbing, his wrists are hurting, and it is too bright. He's surrounded by nurses and doctors, and they're using words like “severe blood loss” and “psychiatric evaluation”, but he doesn't understand what they are talking about. 

There is a window out to the hallway, and he can see his friends on the other side. Jehan is clinging to Courfeyrac, crying. Feuilly wants to hug Jehan, ask why he's crying. No one should make Jehan cry. 

Courfeyrac is standing rigidly, mouth shut tightly, but he can see tears glistening in his eyes, too. Why are they crying?

Joly is arguing with an overworked intern, and Bossuet tries to reign him in. Combeferre looks absolutely livid, Feuilly has never seen him like this before. Enjolras is sitting slumped in a chair, clutching Grantaire's hand, who's looking like he is about to pass out. He wants to smile at their sign of affection, but his face refuse to cooperate. All he can do is stare blankly at them. 

And where is Bahorel?

He closes his eyes again. He doesn't understand anything. He doesn't know where he is, why his friends are so upset, why everything hurts, and why it is so bright. He doesn't know where Bahorel is.

 

When he opens his eyes again, he's in a different room. It's less bright. The throbbing in his head has subsided into a dull ache, but other than that he doesn't feel anything. At all.

He's in the process of getting up when a nurse enters the room.

“Oh, you're awake,” she says brightly. He looks at her.

“Where am I?” he asks.

“The hospital,” she answers. She prods and pokes him everywhere, but he can't feel it.

“Hospital? Why?” 

“Can you tell me your name?” she asks, avoiding his question.

“Antoine Feuilly,” he says. “Why am I here?”

“Do you remember what happened before you woke up here?”

“I was... in another room. My friends were there. They were crying, they.... I... What happened?”

The nurse stops poking him for a second, sits down at a chair next to him, and looks at him warily. 

“We believe you tried to commit suicide.”

“No. That can't be right, I wouldn't...”

“Do you remember what happened before the hospital?”

He tries, but all he can remember is the bright light.

“My head hurts,” is all he says. 

“You've been through a massive trauma, it is only to be expected. You'll be better in a few days.”

His wrists are itching, and he discovers they are heavily bandaged. 

“Why can't I remember anything?” he asks.

“It'll come back, eventually,” she says. “Try to get some rest.” She tries to push him back into the bed, but he is reluctant.

“When can I go home?” he says. He doesn't want to be here, not in the least.

“Well, we can only keep you here for two more days, but we really want to keep you here a while longer for observation.”

“I don't.... I haven't done anything that requires observation,” he says desperately. What was happening? Why can't he remember anything? He starts to panic. “What is happening?”

“Listen, you had...an accident. If your friend hadn't discovered you when he did, you would have died. You were brought in just in time.”

He feels sick. What kind of accident? His head starts throbbing again. He clutches his head, groaning.

“I'm going to up your morphine to numb the headache. Please rest,” she says. She pushes a button next to his bed, and then she leaves.

He doesn't want to rest, he wants to get out of there. He's trying to get out of bed, but his mind is foggy, and before he knows it, he's blacked out again.  
___

He wakes up after what feels like a week. It's dark outside, and he's not sure where he is. Suddenly he's aware of a presence next to him. He turns to find Grantaire and Enjolras sitting next to him. Grantaire is asleep, but Enjolras is looking at him with his usual piercing gaze. 

“You're awake,” he whispers, as to not wake Grantaire. “How are you feeling?” 

Feuilly shrugs.

“I'm not feeling anything.”

There is a brief silence while Feuilly tries to wrap his head around what's happening. Enjolras is holding Grantaire's hand again, his thumb rubbing small circles on the back of his hand. Feuilly doesn't comment on it. 

“What happened?” he asks. He still doesn't understand.

“I was hoping you could tell me,” Enjolras says. “Grantaire went to your apartment a couple of days ago, and he said he found you in a pool of blood on the kitchen floor. He called the ambulance, and then he called us. The doctors said you arrived just in time.”

If Feuilly had been capable of feeling anything, he would have felt bad about putting his friends, putting Grantaire through that. But he doesn't. He doesn't feel anything. 

“Do you remember anything?” Enjolras asks. Feuilly shakes his head. But when Enjolras was telling him what happened, he remembered. He remembered how cold the knife felt on his skin, how he was too dizzy to completely cut the other one, and just gave up. That was no accident. He remembered feeling tired. But he says nothing.

Grantaire stirs, and opens his eyes. Enjolras turns his attention to the dark haired man, and says something to him, too low for Feuilly to hear. Grantaire looks at Feuilly, and Feuilly would have felt bad, if he could.

“R, I'm....sorry,” Feuilly says.

“You should be,” Grantaire says simply. “You scared the shit out of me.” 

Feuilly smiles a little. 

“How are the drugs?” Grantaire asks. Enjolras looks at him disapprovingly. 

“Fantastic,” Feuilly says, dead-panned. “Can't feel anything.”

“Really, Grantaire,” Enjolras starts, looking like he's about to go on one of his rants, before he remembers where he is, and decides against it. He just looks at his watch. “I'm gonna call the others, tell them you're awake. Hopefully they haven't gone to bed yet.” He leaves the room, phone in hand.

“We finally convinced them to go home,” Grantaire explains. “They've all been sitting in the waiting room, refusing to leave. They never allows more than one person in the room at a time.”

“But you two...” Feuilly starts. Grantaire snickers.

“Enjolras convinced the nurse to let us both in. And by convince I mean argue until the nurse was on the verge of a mental breakdown.” There is a fondness in his expression that he can't manage to hide, and Feuilly is envious of that. 

“I shouldn't have put you guys through all of this,” he says. Grantaire just shrugs. Feuilly wants to say more, but his head is so heavy. The lights are too bright.

Enjolras comes back into the room. “I called Combeferre and Jehan, they're gonna call the rest.” He sits down next to Grantaire, but before he says anything more, a doctor comes in, telling them that they have to leave. Enjolras is about to start arguing again, but Feuilly cuts in before he has the time.

“Really, it's fine. I should get some sleep,” he says. Grantaire hugs him quickly, and Enjolras nods at him.

“We'll be back tomorrow morning,” he says.

When they have left, Feuilly looks at the doctor. 

“When can I leave?” he asks. The doctor smiles, but doesn't say anything. He takes off the bandages and inspects the wounds. Feuilly sees them for the first time. They are long, and jagged, and neatly stitched together. He looks away, and feels sick again. 

“Your wounds are healing nicely,” the doctor says. “There will be some scarring, but they will hopefully fade after a while.”

“When can I go home?” Feuilly tries again. The doctor looks at him.

“You've been in here for two days, and by law we can't keep you for more than 72 hours. But we really want to keep you here a few more days for evaluation.”

“You think I'm crazy,” Feuilly says. The doctor doesn't answer that, but he gives him a look that indicates that 'Well, you did just try to take your own life. What do you think?' And really, who's to say they're wrong? 

“Fine. I'll stay,” he says finally. “But I'm not crazy.”

“Of course you're not,” the doctor says. He leaves.  
___

The next few days pass in a haze of visitors and appointments with different psychologists. Jehan starts crying the second he sees Feuilly, and he doesn't know how to respond to that. The others don't cry, they mostly just stare at him. They spend hours in his room, only leaving when they are forced to. His psychiatrists are nice, but he doesn't know how to answer their questions. No, he doesn't know why he did it. No, it had probably nothing to do with his childhood. No, it was not the lack of parents. No, he doesn't want to talk about that. Eventually they stop asking him questions, and he is grateful for that. 

His friends could learn a thing or two from them. Some of them are more subtle than others, but they keep asking, and asking, and asking, and Feuilly is tired. He keeps assuring them that he is fine, and yeah, it was probably the alcohol, or the drugs, and yes, he should really look into that. 

But he knows it wasn't. It had nothing to do with that. But he still doesn't know why he did it.

The day before he's to be released, he finally dares to ask the one question that he has had since he woke up.

“Where is Bahorel?” 

They all look at each other, uncomfortable. Joly is the one to speak up.

“We don't know. We haven't really heard from him since we called to tell him about you.”

Feuilly nods while he feels his stomach drop. He's not sure what he expected. Whatever is happening between him and Bahorel, this shouldn't have been surprising. Bahorel has a tendency to drop off the radar for days, even weeks. He is probably on a bender. Or in Thailand. 

“Looking forward to going home?” Jehan says, trying to dissolve the tension that had appeared in the room.  
___

Feuilly takes a final look through his room, making sure he has packed the little of his things that were brought here. He had reassured his friends over and over again that no, he didn't need anyone to pick him up, and after a while they stopped badgering him.

His wrists are still itching. The bandages are gone, there is only a bandaid on each wrist to keep dirt from getting into the stitches. He is scheduled to remove the stitches next week. He's also scheduled to go to a therapist twice a week for the foreseeable future. He is not looking forward to that.

He tugs the sleeves of his jumper down to cover the bandaids before he steps out of the room. The on-duty nurse looks up from the station just outside his door. “All ready to leave?” she says. He nods, and offers her a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

“Your friend is waiting outside for you,” she says. “They just called from the ground floor.” 

“I told them I didn't want to be picked up,” he groans. He knows he's acting childish, and he doesn't care. 

“It's not one of those who have so ardently kept you accompanied the past week,” she says. “Another one. The one who refused to leave when you were admitted.”

“What?” Feuilly says dumbly. 

“He is quite a scary looking fellow, isn't he? I thought he was going to punch me when I told him he had to leave. He simply refused,” she whispers conspiratorially, before she winks at him. “See you next week!” 

Feuilly walks downstairs, and heads out of the building. And sure enough, leaning against the building and ignoring the “no smoking” sign, Bahorel is waiting for him. 

“Hi,” he says when he comes over. “Ready to go?” 

Feuilly just nods, thoroughly lost. Bahorel takes the bag from him, and heads towards his car. Feuilly follows.

“What are you doing here, Bahorel?” he says.

“They told me you were being released today,” he answers while he tosses the bag into the back seat, and gets into the driver's seat. 

“I didn't want to be picked up,” Feuilly says. He really does sound like a petulant child. Bahorel smiles.

“Yeah, so I heard. I decided against that.” He leans over the passenger seat, and opens the door. “You getting in?”

Feuilly gets in, and closes the door. Bahorel doesn't say anything, he just offers him a cigarette which Feuilly accepts.

They start driving, and after a week of non-stop talking, this silence is very welcome. Feuilly realises he has missed this. He has missed Bahorel. And if he was able to feel anything, he would have felt a lot of things regarding him. But he doesn't.

“Did they give you any good drugs to go?” Bahorel asks after a while. Feuilly snorts.

“I haven't even gone through the stash yet, but I'm sure they did.” 

“Awesome.”

“Hey, stay away from those, they're mine!”

“'They're mine!' You sound like a child. I went through a lot of trouble to pick you up, I expect payment for this, I'm not some charitable happy-go-lucky chap, you know,” Bahorel says.

“Yeah, no shit,” Feuilly mutters, and Bahorel punches him in the arm. And after a week of everyone treating him like he was made of glass, this is a nice change. He feels more normal by the minute. 

They pull up by his apartment. Bahorel stops the car, grabs his bag, and gets out. They head up the stairs, and Feuilly is looking for his keys when Bahorel pulls out his own keychain, and unlocks Feuilly's door.

“Since when do you have keys to my apartment?” he asks, going inside. Bahorel laughs.

“Yeah, I've been meaning to talk to you about that...”

“Did you steal my key?!” 

“I borrowed it! And gave it back after I made a copy,” he grins. Feuilly should be angry at him, but he's really not all that surprised.

Bahorel goes into his bedroom to drop the bag, and Feuilly walks into the kitchen. He's not sure what sight he was expecting. Pools of blood on the floor, congealed and coagulated, with a knife tossed carelessly into it. But the floor is clean, the knife is gone, and there is no evidence of what happened the last time he was here. 

He is staring at the floor when Bahorel joins him in the kitchen.

“I'm not sure what I was expecting,” he says, echoing his thoughts. 

“What kind of welcoming committee would that have been to come home to?” Bahorel says. 

“You cleaned it?”

“Hey, I know how to clean!” Bahorel says indignantly. 

“No, I just...” Feuilly starts, but he doesn't know what to say. He looks at Bahorel. 

“Thanks. I guess.”

“You're welcome. I guess,” he retorts, with a crooked grin. “You hungry? There's food in the pantry.”

“You went shopping as well?”

“Fuck no, that was Combeferre. I lent him my key if he promised to give it back,” he says. Feuilly snorts, but shakes his head. He feels exhausted all of a sudden, and plops down on the couch. Bahorel sits down next to him. For a while, neither of them say a word. Bahorel takes Feuilly's hand in his, and gently pushes up the sleeve of his jumper. He pulls the bandaid off. Feuilly would protest if it was anyone other than Bahorel. He would protest, but he's too tired.

Bahorel slides a finger over the stitches, showing a gentleness not many people are aware exists in him. Feuilly looks at him instead of the wound. He doesn't want to be reminded. 

“You never visited me at the hospital,” Feuilly says, his voice barely a whisper. He feels like he might startle him if he speaks too loud. Bahorel doesn't look up, he is just tracing the stitches over and over again. 

“Hospitals aren't really my thing,” he says simply.

“And yet,” Feuilly says, smiling a little “a nurse told me you were there before anyone else was allowed in.” 

He still doesn't look up. “That tattling bitch. I told her not to tell anyone.”

“Why?” Feuilly challenged him. “Because god forbid you show any sort of emotions towards anyone?” 

He doesn't answer. Instead he drags Feuilly from his side of the couch and up in his lap. He would protest of him being treated as a child, but he doesn't know how to. He's too tired. It's too bright. 

Feuilly is a great deal smaller than Bahorel, and as it turn out, the perfect size to fit in his lap. Bahorel tucks Feuilly's head under his chin, and snakes his arm around his waist. Feuilly lets his head rest, closing his eyes and listens to their heartbeats.

“I was scared,” Bahorel finally says. “I thought I was going to lose you. I didn't know what to do. All I knew, was that I couldn't leave. Not until I knew you were going to make it.” 

Feuilly doesn't say anything. His throat is closed up. After a week of not feeling anything, he can feel again. And it hurts. His head, his wrists, his heart. Everything hurts.

“I'm sorry,” he whispers. He can feel a tear rolling down his cheek, but he can't bring himself to care about that. It drops down on Bahorel's arm. Bahorel lifts him up a little, so they're sitting face to face, Feuilly's legs on either side of Bahorel's hips. Bahorel carefully wipes away the wetness on Feuilly's cheek with such tenderness that only makes him cry even more. 

“I'm so sorry. I don't know why I did it, I have no idea, I...” Feuilly babbles on, tears running down his cheeks. Bahorel just looks at him while he pours out everything he has bottled up over the past days. Things he could never tell the others, tell the doctors, tell the therapists. Things that only Bahorel can hear, that only he can understand. Bahorel understands Feuilly better than he does himself. 

And when Feuilly is done and out of things to say, Bahorel doesn't try to rationalise it, to offer an explanation. Instead, he kisses him. Very softly, unlike any kiss they have ever shared before. He pulls him closer, and puts his arms around him, as to shield him from everything, even himself. Feuilly finds himself again somewhere in between those kisses.

Bahorel pulls away slightly, leaving Feuilly wanting more. His eyes are dark, and his voice is rough.

“It's okay,” he says, even though they both know it's not. “Just don't do it again.” And then he says something Feuilly is pretty sure Bahorel has never said before in his life.

“Please.”

Feuilly leans in again, and whispers against his lips.

“I promise.” And kisses him again. 

After a while, Feuilly leans his head against Bahorel's shoulder. He closes his eyes.

“I'm so tired,” he mumbles. He's been tired for an eternity. He's been tired forever. 

Bahorel grabs him more firmly, and carries him into the bedroom. He lies him down on the bed, and carefully takes his clothes off, making sure to not pull the stitches when he takes off his jumper and t-shirt. When he's down to just his boxer, Bahorel stops. Feuilly looks at him.

“Take it off,” he says. So he does. And then he takes off his own clothes. And when Feuilly feels the weight of Bahorel on top of him, feels his hands roaming over his body, feels his mouth gently devouring his body inch by inch, he feels more alive than he has for ages. He's finally not tired anymore, it's finally not too bright. He feels again, and he feels better. The only ache has has now is between his legs, and Bahorel makes sure that ache disappears. 

There are no questions that night. There aren't any explanations either. There is only love. Love only Bahorel and Feuilly know, can only show each other. And Feuilly feels it now. He loves Bahorel.


End file.
